My Redacted Live: Chapter Nine (Cont._4)

In 1971, the Great Society Program was drawing to a close. It marked the end of a massive effort to address America’s problems with money. Some would say it was a great failure. Some would say it was a great but errant humanitarian effort to help the “least of those among us.”

A Truman-era bureaucrat named Rufus Miles perhaps stated it best in an observation that would become known as Miles’s Law: “Where you stand depends on where you sit.” The poor are just poor, some would argue, nothing we can do about it. They deserve it. Over the years, though, I would find that it is easy to denounce our poor “from a warm room on a full stomach,” as Alistair Cook described the source of H.L. Mencken’s acerbic writing.

At any rate, I was learning to write grants. This is a procedure, as best I can describe it, that involves a highly sophisticated and literary begging technique. The trick isn’t to procure funds for a need, but to convince the dispensers of succor that history would judge them wise and proper for the grants they chose to issue.

At any rate, it would send me into some of the poorest and neediest neighborhoods in our state. I would spend many an evening in a small, white frame church building in the middle of an Arkansas Delta summer. There would be no air-conditioning and the mosquitoes would be flying through open windows in formation, like squadrons of the 8^th Air Force over Berlin. From time to time, one would accidentally hit the makeshift podium and knock in over. You had to watch out for them. There is a legend that one once carried off a baby, but I don’t think this is true. I heard it was just a small puppy.

Amway, I would be the only white face in the crowd of earnest folks in desperate need of a source of clean water or some other human need. It would be one of many communities in our state that history was passing over in the new age.

You can’t see those places from the towers of Manhattan or the fancy homes in Georgetown.

I was good at begging, and I was getting better at writing, so I enjoyed some success. I was still hitching rides to planning commission meetings with one or the other of my bosses. On free evenings, I was enjoying myself, mostly reading or picking guitar. Then there was my sometime friend Jackie with her wonderful singing voice and other special benefits.

Oh, and speaking of music, I was becoming a regular at the folk music gathering I mentioned before. This was the group called “The Rackensack Society,” a diverse group of amateur musicians ranging in quality from beginner to near-professional quality. They formed a jolly, welcoming, gracious group. After a few meetings, I even noticed something that struck me as strange.

Some background: There is a large Air Force base in Jacksonville, Arkansas, oddly named “The Little Rock Air Force Base.” There is an enduring legend that the state of Arkansas agreed to adopting modern city planning statutes only as a condition for its location, but that is a story for another day.

What struck me strange back then was that several airmen from that military base were regulars at the Rackensack meetings and that the other members welcomed them and treated them as equals.

Now one may wonder why I thought it strange that a social group of citizens would welcome military personnel into their midst. Just consider my background, particularly the fact that I spent the last portion of my enlistment at Charleston, South Carolina. Had I tried to join a social group there, I would have likely faced the wrath of the local police who hated African-Americans, servicemen, and non-tourist strangers in almost equal portions.

I was living in a new world and I was enjoying it. I had a good job, I felt I was doing some good things, I was making new friends, and Little Rock was a hell of a lot better place to live than Charleston.

I’ll get to the new friends later.  

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